


The Golden Age

by schweet_heart



Series: Merlin Fic [60]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Canon-Typical Violence, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Exile, Graphic Description, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Magic Revealed, Merlin's Magic Revealed, Mutual Pining, Parent/Child Incest, Past Relationship(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Hatred, Sexual Violence, Sibling Rivalry, Supernatural Elements, Temporary Amnesia, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2018-11-05 21:33:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11022018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: Dark!Canon AU. Ten years after Merlin is executed for sorcery, Arthur returns to Camelot, determined to regain the throne that was stripped from him a decade before. But his father's death has left the kingdom unstable and weak, and not everyone is happy to see their disgraced prince return home. Surrounded by spies and secrets, Arthur will do whatever it takes to achieve his destiny and usher in Camelot's Golden Age, even if it means destroying the things he once held dear.And then Merlin returns, and suddenly things aren't so simple anymore.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Holy crap, this has been an effort and a half. Many thanks to the Merlin Reverse Bang mods for running the fest and for their limitless patience and encouragement, to **tari_sue** for the fabulous beta help, and to **pelydryn77** and the other regulars of the Merlin Chat for their encouragement and support. Seriously guys, I would never have gotten to this point without you  <3
> 
> And of course, this fic would not exist at all without the wonderful and inspirational art of [barbitone](http://archiveofourown.org/users/barbitone/), which you can find [here](http://imgur.com/xVOYm7L), [here](http://imgur.com/EPBNlbx) and [here](http://imgur.com/doRsooL)!
> 
>  **WARNING:** While I have chosen not to use the archive warnings for this one, as most of the relevant events happen off-screen and in the past, this story does contain references to and descriptions of (temporary) Major Character Death, domestic and other graphic violence, incest, PTSD, panic attacks, and dub- and non-con (not between Merlin/Arthur). Please read the tags and proceed accordingly.

 

 

 

 

O N E

 

* * *

  

It was raining when they arrived in Camelot. Arthur was already soaked to the skin, cold and exhausted after days of hard travel, but he hadn’t been able to resist pushing the last few miles in order to have sight of the citadel before dark. Leon hadn’t objected to the fast pace, no doubt as eager as the others to get out of the rain, but nor did he object when Arthur drew rein on a hillside some way out of the city and stopped there just to look, shielding his face to better make out the castle through the downpour.

 

“Is it as you remember it, sire?” Leon asked, slowing his horse to a halt beside the prince. He was squinting his eyes against the rain, looking not at the castle but at the terrain they had yet to cross. “I imagine things are much changed since you last travelled this way.”

 

Considering that the last time Arthur had taken this road had been on the day he departed for Tintagel, his most recent memories of Camelot were hardly happy ones. Nevertheless, he could recall the sight of it with perfect clarity, the white walls standing out in the early morning mist, bright banners unfurling in a sudden breeze just as he had turned back to look. The wrench at his heart was still there, even after all this time. 

 

“Some things are more familiar than others,” he answered, finally. Outwardly, at least, the citadel looked much as it had done when he left, but he imagined the same could not be said for the inner workings of the keep. “I think perhaps the walls are bigger. And it certainly feels a lot closer than it did ten years ago.”

 

Leon smiled, but he looked anxious. The rain had plastered his red curls against his head, and his horse, a steady bay filly with a splash of white across her nose, shifted restlessly in place, attuned as ever to her master’s moods.

 

“Relax, Leon,” Arthur said, glancing at him. “There are still a few hours before nightfall. We have plenty of time.”

 

“Yes, sire,” Leon agreed. The tone of his voice said otherwise, however, and Arthur looked back at the way they had come, the sun low in the Western sky, a bedraggled group of men strung out like wayward sheep across the base of the hill.

 

“We’ll be fine,” Arthur said, forcing himself to sound confident. “We’ve been planning this moment for months, remember? What could possibly go wrong?”

 

Leon pushed back his sopping fringe with one hand. “Would you like a list?” He gestured to the soldiers below them, hunched and miserable in the driving rain. “They’re little better than farmers, Arthur. To pit them against the trained knights of Camelot is suicide.”

 

Arthur’s fingers tightened reflexively on the reins. “Which is why we’re not going to pit them against trained knights,” he said, as his horse threw its head back in protest. “At least, not straight away. With any luck, the members of the court will be persuaded to see my point of view and all of our preparations will be for nothing.”

 

“Right.” Leon’s smile was wry. “Because our luck has been nothing but good these past few years.”

 

Arthur smiled back, somewhat grimly, touching the tip of the scar that ran along his collarbone. There were others, on his back and on his arms, beneath his ribs. Reminders of the things he had survived.

 

“I don’t know,” he said. “There was a time when you were certain I would never set foot in Camelot again. And yet, here we are – at the invitation of Morgana herself, no less. Perhaps our fortunes are changing.”

 

“Perhaps,” Leon acknowledged, inclining his head. “But there’s nothing to say that change must be for the better.”

 

Arthur snorted. “If I knew you were going to be so pessimistic, I would have left you at Tintagel,” he said. “Have you no faith in your prince?”

 

“Of course, sire. It’s your men I don’t quite trust.”

 

There was little Arthur could say to that. He had trained most of them himself, during the empty, endless days at his mother’s childhood home, but as soldiers they were untried and had never seen battle. Even if the Council did side with him, Morgana held the citadel and thus the upper hand. He could quite easily be riding to his death.

 

Shaking his head, Arthur nudged his gelding forward again, resettling his weight in the saddle as they moved downhill. The oilskin-wrapped parcel tucked against his breast seemed to grow heavier with every step, the weight of all their lives resting on the veracity of its contents. Arthur set his sights on the castle and did not look away, even when the turrets disappeared behind the trees. 

 

He had been born to rule this kingdom. Regardless of his personal feelings towards the place, Camelot was in his blood.  

 

He would not allow his father to take that from him too.

 

 

*

 

 

They split up at the edge of the forest. 

 

“This is as far as I go,” Percival said, clasping arms first with Arthur and then with Leon. His orders were to return to base camp, where the bulk of Arthur’s forces were awaiting the prince’s signal to advance. If all went well, they would be welcomed through the open gates. If not, well, there were other ways into the castle, and reports suggested that there were enough men still loyal to Arthur that they would not lack for support when the time came. Camelot without its king had become a tinderbox, ready for any spark to set it ablaze. It was Arthur's job to ensure that didn’t happen.

 

Leon had sent word of their return by way of an early messenger, but out of prudence – or paranoia – had neglected to include the intended date of their arrival, so there was no one to greet them as they rode through the empty streets of the lower town. At the gates, Leon sent one of the guardsmen scurrying with the announcement that the prince had arrived, and the rest of Arthur’s men shifted almost imperceptibly closer, forming a protective phalanx just in case someone took it into their heads to attack. Even here, he wasn’t safe. Perhaps here especially. 

 

Within minutes, they were being ushered across the drawbridge and into the inner sanctum, their horses’ hooves ringing against the slick cobbles. Arthur tried not to stare as the familiar walls closed around him. Intellectually, he knew it was irrational to have expected it to look any different, at least in any discernible sense, and yet emotionally he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was wrong – that there should be some sign to mark what had transpired here.

 

He ignored Leon’s attempt to help him from his horse, and swung down onto the slippery stone, handing the gelding’s reins over to one of the stable hands wearing the Camelot livery. While the others were busy seeing to their own mounts, Arthur walked to the centre of the courtyard and looked up at the balcony, memories from the last time he had stood there crowding into his thoughts. His skin felt clammy and cold, and he rubbed his suddenly numb hands together, trying not to notice the way the rain on the cobblestones sounded a lot like drums. Was it his imagination, or did the breeze still carry the faintest hint of ash?

 

“Sire?” Leon appeared at his side, one hand on his sword hilt. “Is everything all right?”

 

“Yes, fine.” Arthur straightened, embarrassed to have been distracted by something so ridiculous. “Are the horses settled?”

 

Leon nodded. “The Lady Morgana has been informed of your arrival.” His pursed lips indicated his disapproval, but whether it was of the lady herself or the plan that brought them here was an open question. “She says you’re to join them in the Great Hall when you’ve had the chance to change.”

 

“Gracious of her,” Arthur observed drily. In anyone else, it might have been an insult, but the Morgana he remembered had always valued practicality over the constraints of courtly propriety. 

 

Besides. If she wanted to insult him, she would have done so to his face. 

 

It was a relief to get out of the rain, though the castle seemed to have grown oddly emptier in the years since his departure. His father’s imprint was everywhere, from the Pendragon crest standing out boldly above the door to the black-draped statues in the antechamber, and Arthur still half expected to see him come striding down the hallway towards them, his expression set in the habitual scowl he had always worn when he caught sight of his son. It seemed that Uther had taken most of the good memories with him, leaving behind only his disapproval and regret. It was no less than Arthur would have expected from him. 

 

“It feels like a mausoleum,” he muttered under his breath to Leon, and the knight smothered his snort inside a cough.

 

They were met at the foot of the main staircase by one of Morgana’s servants, a young man who introduced himself as Leif. The name seemed to be characteristic, for he trembled a little as he greeted them, darting covert glances at the men with swords who clustered at Arthur’s back. Arthur suppressed the desire to order him to stop fidgeting.

 

“Sleeping quarters have been arranged for your men in the barracks,” the boy said, bowing deeply to the prince. “But Her Ladyship has asked that I show you to your old quarters. She said – she thought you would be happiest there.”

 

Knowing Morgana, that could have been either cruelty or civility, depending on her mood, but Leif at least seemed earnest enough, glancing shyly up at Arthur through his lashes in a way that made him feel distinctly uncomfortable.

 

“Thank you, but you may go,” he said, turning away from the boy before he could start thinking about why _else_ Morgana might have sent Leif to attend to him. “I’m sure can find my own way to my rooms.”

 

Still, the boy lingered. “If you please, my lord,” he said, shifting his weight uncertainly. “I’m to be your manservant while you’re staying in the castle. Her Ladyship requested that I make sure you feel at home." 

 

And _that_ was definitely Morgana throwing down the gauntlet, and doing so in a way that Arthur would seem churlish to take offence to. Well. It was good to know she hadn’t lost her edge.

 

“Fine,” Arthur said after a moment, although what he really wanted to say was _Christ, you’re much too young for any of this_. The boy didn’t even have the sense to try to hide his relief, smiling at Arthur as if he’d just been handed the key to the crown jewels. “Wait for me in my chambers then, if you must. I’ll follow you upstairs after I’ve seen to my men.”

 

Leif bowed, and hastened to obey, scrambling back up the staircase the way he had come. Leon waited until he was out of sight before stepping up beside Arthur and saying mildly, “It wouldn’t hurt to be nicer to the lad, sire. One smile, and you’d have him eating out of your hand.”

 

Arthur shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said shortly. “It’s obvious he’s one of Morgana’s spies; there’s no point in trying to befriend him.”

 

“You don’t need to find him useful in order to be _friendly_.” He frowned at Arthur, studying his face, and for a moment he looked almost sad. “You know we could use all the friends we can get.”

 

“Perhaps. But I’m not so desperate as to go looking for more among the servant classes,” Arthur said, his lips compressing into a thin line. “Or is this your way of saying you would prefer to resign from the position, now that we’ve come this far? Because if so, I’m sure we can find you a more suitable replacement than my _manservant_.”

 

Leon flinched minutely, his spine stiffening at the suggestion. Arthur saw a series of expressions chase their way across his face before it settled into a mask of passive indifference. 

 

“Of course not, sire,” he said neutrally. “I apologise if anything I said gave that impression.”

 

“Good. Now, see that the men are fed and have somewhere to sleep,” Arthur said, setting his jaw. “Then set up a rota for guard duty. I want two men posted outside my chambers at all times.”

 

“Yes, sire.” Leon looked as if he wanted to say more, but he saluted to acknowledge the order, shoulders back and eyes straight ahead. When Arthur nodded curtly, he turned to usher the rest of the men out into the corridor that led to the barracks, leaving the prince to make his way up the main staircase alone.

 

 

*

 

 

Like the rest of the castle, Arthur’s old chambers seemed somehow diminished after his long absence, the familiar furniture dull with age and dust. All of his personal belongings had been cleared away – some of them had gone with him to Tintagel, but he suspected the rest might have been burnt – and the hangings smelled faintly of mildew, though attempts had been made to cheer the place up with a vase full of late-blooming flowers. A bath had already been drawn for him, and a fire had been recently lit in the grate. Leif had obviously anticipated his new master’s needs, and had prepared for them meticulously.

 

“Is everything to your liking, my lord?” The servant asked anxiously, when he saw that Arthur had stopped just inside the doorway. “I would have had a tray of food brought up as well, only Her Ladyship felt you might prefer some company while you dine.”

 

“It’s fine.” Arthur walked slowly across the room, running a hand over the rim of the bathtub and trying to calm his racing heart. There was no obvious threat, not a single item out of place, but still the rooms felt haunted. “I suppose these chambers were often put to use while I was away?”

 

“No, sire.” Leif blinked, his expression so utterly guileless that Arthur had a hard time imputing to him anything so monumental as rational thought, let alone actual intelligence. “The Lady Morgana instructed me to air them out this morning, but before that they were usually kept boarded up. They say the old king didn’t have much use for them.” Then he blushed, apparently realising who he was talking to. “I’m sure he meant it as a gesture of respect, my lord.”

 

“No doubt,” Arthur said, although that wasn’t the part of Leif’s response that had bothered him. It hadn’t escaped his notice that Morgana must have begun preparing their rooms well before she could have known of their arrival. Or was it merely a coincidence?

 

It was useless to interrogate Leif. The boy either knew nothing, or he would tell him nothing. In any case, if they were walking into a trap there was little he could do about it for the moment. He glanced around once more, and almost wanted to laugh. When he had been a prisoner at Tintagel he had often thought longingly of this room and its former comforts, but now that he was here it was as if those memories belonged to a different life. A different person. Perhaps none of them had even happened at all.

 

Against his will, his attention drifted back to the fire in the grate, distractingly bright in the darkened room. Even from this distance, he could feel the heat of it on his skin, like the echo of a long-ago burn, the cloying scent of sweet yew smoke thick in his mouth and throat. 

 

“Put out the fire,” he said, turning his head away and beginning to strip off his gloves.  

 

“But— sire, the chill— ”

 

“I said, put out the fire,” Arthur ground out. He dropped his gloves onto one of the chairs near the door and moved on to his cloak, tugging uselessly at the tangled knot with stiff, jerky movements. “I’ve survived worse than a few cold nights out on the coast; I assure you, Camelot is more than warm enough without wasting firewood on me. Put it out.”

 

The young man hesitated for another moment longer, then sketched a shallow bow and picked up one of the ewers to douse the blaze. When that proved insufficient, he supplemented the effort with water from the bath, slanting a sideways glance at Arthur for approval.

 

Arthur’s shoulders did not relax until the last of the flames had died and the final coil of smoke was duly extinguished. His fingers had curled unconsciously into fists, but there was no one to fight: certainly not a scrawny serving boy who had probably never so much as handled a sword in his life. With an effort, he took a deep breath and tried to defuse some of the tension. “At Tintagel, things were…simpler,” he said, not without some irony. “I learned to do without a great many things during my time there. In fact, you’ll find I much prefer to shift for myself.”

 

Leif was staring at him with wide eyes. Possibly he had never heard of a noble who actually wanted to do his own chores before, Arthur thought, with grim amusement. Well, he would soon learn. 

 

“Did I— did I do something wrong?” The boy asked, after a moment. He looked down, twisting his hands nervously in his brown tunic. His colouring, like his demeanour, was all wrong: short, wheat-blond hair and brown eyes, tanned skin like the shell of a nut – and yet, for an instant, Arthur was reminded forcibly of someone else. 

 

“Not wrong, no,” he said coldly. “Since that would mean you had to have actually _done_ something. In the future, if your master tells you to act, I would advise you to do so without waiting to ask why.”

 

Leif swallowed visibly. “Yes, sire.”

 

“In the meantime, help me with these laces and then you’re free to go. I will expect you to bring me my meals and keep the room in order, but otherwise you’re to stay out of sight as much as possible. Understood?”

 

“Yes, sire.”

 

Leif’s fingers trembled as he worked Arthur’s laces loose, and he seemed to be trying to touch the prince as little as possible. Arthur made no effort to put him at his ease. He had not forgotten the packet the was even now resting snugly against his ribs, nor was he inclined to let a stranger make free with his personal space. It was odd to think that this had all once been normal to him. 

 

Once Arthur’s cloak and tunic had been undone, Leif knelt automatically to undo the buckles on his boots, but Arthur drew his feet back sharply.

 

“That will do,” he said, not looking down as the serving boy clambered awkwardly to his feet. “You may go.” 

 

“Yes, sire. Thank you, sire.”

 

Arthur watched him leave. In his hurry to get away, he collided with one of the tables by the door, almost knocking the vase of flowers from its perch. It teetered alarmingly, and Arthur winced in anticipation of the crash.

 

Leif made a small sound of dismay, reaching out a hand as if to stop the vase from falling, despite the fact that it was too far away to catch. It was a gesture Arthur had seen before, although he wasn’t sure why he recognised it. The vase wobbled for a moment longer, then righted itself, and Leif cast a quick glance over his shoulder – Arthur made a point of being occupied with his boots – before slipping silently out of the door.

 

 

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

 

T W O

 

* * *

 

 

 

If Arthur’s rooms had been a portal into the past, then stepping into the Great Hall was like a glimpse into a possible future. His father’s throne was empty and draped with black like the statues in the entranceway, but although it had not been otherwise altered the focus of the hall seemed to have shifted, moving away from the dais where the king had sat to a low divan where Morgana was now reclining as she took her evening meal. It was the sort of indulgence his father would have despised, yet no one else seemed to find it at all unusual. Courtiers twittered around her like a flock of finely dressed birds, each attempting to outdo the other in their mourning dress, and servants lined the wall behind her, still and unobtrusive until called upon to serve. 

 

There was no one to announce him at the door – there seemed to be no herald – but heads soon turned to follow Arthur as he entered, shocked stares and startled whispers trailing him as he crossed the room. He kept his back straight and his gait steady, looking neither left nor right. He had known they would be curious: it wasn’t every day that a kingdom welcomed home a prince who had tried to kill its king. He suspected, however, that it was the deep red of his borrowed tunic that caught their attention. He stood out amidst the unrelieved black like a sore thumb, which had probably been Morgana’s intention.

 

“Arthur,” she said, sitting up languidly when she caught sight of him. He had forgotten how she used to roll her r’s, his name curling softly in her mouth. “It’s so good to see you.”

 

“And you.” Arthur bowed briefly over her hand, then leaned in to kiss her cheek in a more affectionate gesture. “It’s been a long time.”

 

“Too long.” The look in Morgana’s eyes was faintly amused. They both of them knew the steps to this dance, though it had been a while since they had squared off against each other. “I hope you had a pleasant journey.”

 

“Not so pleasant it wasn’t a relief to arrive at our destination.” 

 

“Then Camelot is pleased to welcome you home,” Morgana said with a gracious nod. Her voice carried easily across the hall, and there was a smattering of applause, the nobles looking sidelong at one another as if they weren’t entirely sure what they were supposed to be doing. Arthur nodded curtly in recognition, ignoring their uncertain enthusiasm. He had hardly been expecting a joyful reunion. 

 

A servant pulled up a chair and gestured for him to sit, so Arthur complied, settling himself at the table. He waited a moment, until the conversations that had died down when he’d entered began to pick up volume again, then leaned back towards the divan and said quietly, “You look well.”

 

She didn’t. Her face was very pale, even more so than he remembered, with dark smudges beneath her eyes, and when she moved it was with the sort of diaphanous slowness that invalids sometimes affected as a means of guarding against pain. Nevertheless, she laughed.

 

“You always were a terrible liar.” Her mouth trembled, but her eyes seemed sharp enough, taking in his carefully schooled expression with far too knowing a gaze. “Before you get any ideas, I am perfectly well. It’s only that these past few weeks have been such a trial.”

 

“Of course.” The reports Arthur had had from the citadel over the years suggested that Morgana’s old illness had begun to reassert itself shortly after he had left, and she had been of a delicate constitution ever since, being confined to her bed sometimes for weeks at a time. He wasn't surprised to hear that Uther's death had been hard on her. “You were always closer to Father than I was, especially towards the end.”

 

A shadow seemed to cross Morgana’s face, and she fidgeted, running her fingers over the intricate engraving of the bracelet on her wrist. “Yes, I suppose I was,” she said, then smirked. “That could be because I never attempted to kill him. At least, not publicly.”

 

Arthur forced a smile. He had regarded Morgana as a sister, once, and despite their long estrangement he knew she had been instrumental in ensuring that Uther had not killed him outright for what he had done. He used to wonder whether she had been punished for that, and whether her illness stemmed not from grief at all, but the inevitable frustration and resentment she must have felt at being the one left behind. He had a feeling he no longer needed to ask. 

 

“I'm sure he appreciated your self-restraint,” was all he said, affecting a lightness he did not feel. “I hope Gaius has been taking good care of you?”

 

“Gaius retired shortly after you left,” Morgana said, finally releasing her bracelet and reaching for a slice of meat on her plate. She ate in quick, delicate bites, and washed it down with a sip of wine that was a little too eager to have been entirely casual. “But I have not been abandoned. Our new physician, Fenian, has been quite attentive, and I have my sister here as well to take care of me.”

 

Arthur blinked. “Your sister?”

 

“Yes.” Morgana turned her head vaguely, raising a hand to gesture to someone at one of the tables. “Morgause is my mother’s other daughter, from her previous marriage. She has been very kind.”

 

The name was a bucket of ice water in the already chilly room. Arthur stood very still as he waited for Morgause to appear, half hoping the woman was some kind of delusion Morgana had dreamed up in her delirium. But he was out of luck: Morgause was already wending her way towards them through the crowd of people, the immaculate blonde hair and kohl-lined eyes no less intimidating than they had been when he first met her. 

 

“Prince Arthur,” she said, once she was within hearing distance, her lips curving up into a slow smile. “Such a pleasure to see you again.”

 

It was obvious that she was enjoying his shock immensely, and Arthur had to fight the urge to wipe the smirk off her face. He gave a stiff nod.

 

“The pleasure is all mine, I’m sure.” Had he any magic whatsoever, the fury boiling under his skin at the sight of her would have incinerated her on the spot. But Morgause only shrugged and took a step closer to Morgana, stroking a possessive hand through her long, dark curls.

 

“We’ve been looking forward to your arrival, haven’t we, sister?” 

 

“Indeed, we have.” Morgana leaned into the caress, cat-like, her eyes half closed. “You’ve been away too long, Arthur. I think you’ll find things in Camelot have changed a great deal in your absence.”

 

“So I gather,” Arthur said coolly. “There are certainly a lot of faces here that I wasn’t expecting to see again.”

 

Morgana affected not to understand him, but Morgause smiled, her teeth white and sharp. “I’m sure there are a lot of people here who could say the same about you,” she said. “Morgana didn’t expect you to take up her invitation, I know, but I convinced her to send it anyway. Family should be together at such moments as these, don’t you agree?”

 

“ _You_ convinced her?” Arthur’s eyebrows rose. “I had no idea you were so keen to see me back in Camelot.”

 

“I want Morgana to be happy,” Morgause said, shrugging. This struck Arthur as a particularly disingenuous excuse under the circumstances, and he considered telling her so. But Morgana, who had apparently not been listening to this little tete-a-tete, chose that moment to summon the servants for the next course, and there was no chance for Arthur to respond before the evening meal resumed. 

 

A parade of finely cooked meats and elegantly arranged cheeses were placed before them, filling the already groaning tables almost to bursting, and Arthur helped himself, wondering at the lavishness of the spread. Camelot had been under restricted rations for years, ever since the border skirmishes with Alined had escalated into an all-out war of attrition and choked off their trade routes to the south. Even Arthur, trapped as he had been on the far side of Alined’s kingdom, had known about their straitened circumstances; Agravaine had made a point of informing him whenever he received the latest news from the north. So where had all this food come from?

 

Arthur glanced at Morgana, who was once again eating with the same focused attention he had noticed before, as if the meal might disappear the moment she turned away. The other nobles had adopted a similar posture, and though they were talking, most of their attention was on their food. 

 

The only one who wasn’t eating was Morgause, but that was because she was watching Arthur, a speculative expression on her face. He picked up his knife and began to cut into his leg of mutton again more slowly, choosing the smallest morsel and putting it into his mouth to chew. It tasted delicious, hot and tender and dripping with its own juices, yet somehow it provided him with no satisfaction at all.

 

 

*

 

 

Later, when Morgana had drifted away to speak to one of the other noblewoman, Arthur moved closer to Morgause. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, keeping his voice low. "I thought I told you never to set foot in this kingdom again."

 

Morgause’s composure never faltered. “In case you haven't noticed, _my lord_ ,” she said, leaning over to pluck a strawberry from a platter. “You haven't exactly been in a position to enforce such a ban. Besides. With the Mercians practically at the gates, Camelot will need all the allies it can muster. I'm here to support my sister, nothing more.”

 

“I’m sure that’s what you told Morgana,” Arthur said, his lip curling. “But I’m not a fool. I know you do nothing without an ulterior motive. Have you come to set us at each other’s throats again, as you did with me and my father?”

 

“What happened between you and your father was not of my doing,” Morgause responded calmly. She took a bite of the fruit, chewed, swallowed, and daintily dabbed her mouth. Arthur’s fists clenched. “I merely told you the truth about your mother’s death. What you chose to do with that information was entirely your own affair.”

 

“But you knew,” Arthur insisted. “You knew that once I discovered what he did to her I’d— ”

 

“Try to kill him?” Morgause supplied, raising one eyebrow. “The great, _honourable_ Prince Arthur, turn regicide? I was as shocked as anybody when I heard the news. Although,” she added, the corners of her lips twitching upwards. “I was rather more sorry to hear that you didn’t succeed.”

 

Arthur didn’t think – he just moved. In moments, his hand was gripping the hilt of the sword at his waist, and he would have drawn on her in spite of the witnesses had he not been seized by a sudden force that rendered it impossible to move. He struggled for a few seconds longer, furious, while Morgause watched with maddening amusement in her dark eyes. 

 

“You might as well give up,” she said, popping the rest of the strawberry in her mouth. “The spell will hold you fast until you stop trying to attack me.”

 

Arthur glanced around at the rest of the courtiers in the crowd, but no one seemed alarmed at such an obvious display of magic in the middle of the Great Hall. Indeed, no one even seemed to notice, continuing with their conversations and their food as though nothing untoward were happening. It was as if the two of them were in their own little bubble, invisible to the rest of the court, and for the first time Arthur felt a prickle of fear.

 

“I should have killed you as soon as I discovered what you were,” he growled, clenching his fist even tighter around the sword. Morgause tutted.

 

“What an unpleasant sentiment,” she reproved him, her eyes glittering. “Perhaps the rumours about you are true; perhaps your precious honour isn’t so untarnished after all. Whatever happened to that naive little prince who was too proud to attack a woman?”

 

“He grew up,” Arthur snapped. He made one last attempt to draw his weapon; it didn’t so much as budge. Helpless rage fluttered at the base of his throat, but if there was one thing he had learned over the past ten years it was the wisdom of living to fight another day. Breathing out slowly through his nose, he loosed his fingers one by one from around the hilt of the sword and forced his shoulders to relax, looking up at Morgause where she stood watching him with an unpleasant smile on her face. “Release me.”

 

“So that you can attack me the moment I let you go?”

 

Arthur ground his teeth. “I will not draw my sword,” he said, voice steady. “You have my word.”

 

Morgause’s smile broadened. “I think we’ve established that your word means very little to me, my prince. But I have better things to do than cosset you all evening.” With a gesture, she removed whatever compulsion she had placed on him, allowing him to move freely once more. “However, if you take up arms against me again, and I will see you dead, regardless of Morgana’s wishes.”

 

Arthur flexed his fingers. Perhaps if he were quick enough, he could wrap them around her throat and choke her before she could utter another spell. Or perhaps she would kill him before he even got close. He had seen magic performed without speech before. 

 

He said, “Does Morgana know about your magic? Or is that part of your plan – to lie to her about what you really are?”

 

“I have no secrets from my sister,” Morgause said, her expression darkening. “She has not been twisted as your father was, although he did his best to break her spirit. I have no need to hide myself from her.”

 

“You may come to regret it.”

 

“Morgana would never hurt me.”

 

“No,” Arthur said drily, letting all the weight of the past ten years hang on the syllable. “I’m sure she wouldn’t. You are family, after all.” He waited until Morgause had turned to face him, her eyes narrowing. “And we all know how precious family is in Camelot, don’t we?”

 

 

*

 

 

Arthur’s quarters were dark when he returned, and blessedly empty. He pushed the door to and leaned against it, flattening his free hand against the cool wood in an effort to force himself to relax. 

 

Encountering Morgause had been…unpleasant. But it also told him more than she might have realised about the way things stood here in Camelot. Morgana obviously had more powerful allies than he had expected, even if Morgause likely had an agenda of her own.

 

It was a complication. How much of one, he couldn’t yet tell, but either way he couldn’t allow it to interfere with their plans.

 

Crossing the room, Arthur went to his writing desk and set down his candle. By the light of its soft glow, he prised open the bureau’s false back and felt around in the dark space beyond, his fingers brushing through dust and cobwebs until he located the parcel he had stashed there earlier. Breathing a sigh of relief, he drew it carefully out into the light and sat down in front of the desk to unwrap it.

 

The material it had been encased in had been specially treated with wax to keep the water out, and Arthur was pleased to see that the papers inside had escaped any damage from the rain. There were only a handful of them, a collection of letters in a foreign hand, the seals all broken long before Arthur had ever clapped eyes on them. As he laid them out side by side atop the desk, he caught the faint scent of lilies and rosewater drifting up from the brittle pages. 

 

Tintagel had been a prison, but it had also been a treasure trove. When Arthur had been growing up in Camelot, he had often wondered why the castle contained nothing that had belonged to his mother. He had assumed his father had her things destroyed or shut away, unable to face the daily reminders of his grief, but during his exile he had discovered that this was not the case. In fact, most of Ygraine’s belongings – including her correspondence – had been appropriated by his uncle, Tristan, after her death. Arthur had spent many long hours amongst her things during his imprisonment, trying to find some trace of her amidst the detritus her brief life had left behind. He had found only letters, not even her own words but ones that had been sent to her, but _within_ those letters had been the key to his salvation. 

 

Taking out a fresh sheet of parchment and some ink, Arthur began to meticulously copy the first letter onto the vellum, underlining those words and phrases that struck him as most important. It wasn’t hard to do – the Lady Vivienne wrote in a firm, if unnecessarily ornate hand, and by now Arthur had read the letters so many times that he had become an expert at deciphering her squiggles and flourishes. Whether the letters would prove as incendiary as he and Leon hoped, however, was more difficult to tell. 

 

It took longer than he’d expected to copy everything. By the time he was done, the candle was flickering and almost out; blinking, Arthur glanced over his shoulder to see the window was slightly open, letting in a draft of cold air that made the hair on the back of his neck prickle. With a shiver, he wrapped up the letters again and tucked them back into their hiding place, then crossed the room to pull the fastening to. From this angle, the courtyard below was full of shadows, the beginnings of early morning frost limning the pale flagstones in the centre of the square. Arthur shivered again, not from the cold this time, and turned away abruptly to ready himself for bed. 

 

In a few days, when he could sneak away without being noticed, he would take the copy to Gaius and ask for his advice. Of all the men Arthur knew, Gaius would know how best to approach the council with what Arthur had discovered, and what it would mean for the succession if it were true. He was also one of the few people in Camelot Arthur knew had almost as much reason to hate his father as he did, and the only one outside of Arthur’s own men that he could trust not to betray him as soon as his back was turned. 

 

That was, of course, always assuming Gaius could be persuaded to speak to him at all. 

 

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters from here on out will be un-beta'd. Partly because I'm lazy, and partly because I just want to get the fic finished. It's been languishing way too long!

 

 

T H R E E

 

* * *

 

 

 

It took more courage than it should have done for Arthur to knock on Gaius’ door. He had prepared his speech already—once upon a time, Merlin had called it his ‘for the good of the kingdom’ speech, the one he used when he wanted to rally his exhausted troops to victory. 

 

“You’re very good at it,” he’d told Arthur, the smile tucked inside his cheek telling him that he was teasing. “Makes me want to pick up a sword and stab something. Very effective.”

 

“As if you’d last five minutes in a proper fight,” Arthur scoffed, mostly to hide his smile. He hadn’t known it then, of course, but Merlin had apparently been very good at fighting. His manservant was by that time the veteran of any number of battles about which his prince had been entirely unaware, battles that Gaius had known about and had kept hidden from him, until the night Arthur had gone to him and demanded to know whether the accusations were true. 

 

They hadn’t exactly parted on the best of terms. 

 

Taking a deep breath, Arthur swallowed down his nerves and hammered on the door. Gaius’ new cottage was at the edge of the Lower Town, as if he’d been trying to get as far away from the castle as possible while still remaining in Camelot. It made Arthur wonder why he didn’t just leave altogether, given that he’d retired from his role as court physician. He certainly hadn’t expected the man to be so easy to find.

 

Then again, perhaps Leif had found the letters and sent him into an ambush. It wouldn’t exactly be the first time someone in his household had betrayed him.

 

He waited, and when no one answered the door he knocked again. The neighbourhood was quiet, a little run-down, and as far as he could tell the street was empty, but he could feel the prickle of watching eyes on the back of his neck, and he didn’t think his disguise would stand up to intensive scrutiny. Forget lurking assassins—Leon was going to kill him when he realised Arthur had gone wandering through the backstreets without a bodyguard, on the word of a _servant_. Did he never learn?

 

At last, the door swung open, and as Gaius’ curious face came into view Arthur found his carefully crafted speech had deserted him. Gaius was older than Arthur remembered, with a stooped back and pure white hair that was, for once, cropped short, but despite the added wrinkles and sagging skin he was immediately recognisable. He peered at Arthur with a frown, squinting as he tried to make out the face beneath the shadow of his hood.

 

“Can I help you?” he asked, uncertain.

 

Arthur pushed back his cloak, and watched as the shock spread across Gaius’ face. 

 

“I hope so,” he said evenly. “May I come in?”

 

 

*

 

 

Gaius’ cottage was cramped but tidy, with no sign of the usual clutter that Arthur had always associated with the old man. There was a fire burning in the grate, over which hung a cauldron that was emitting the distinct smell of venison stew. Rows of books lined the shelves, and there were dried herbs hanging from the rafters, but otherwise there was no sign of Gaius’ former profession in the sparse and simple surroundings. 

 

“I suppose I ought to have anticipated this,” Gaius said, his back to Arthur as he shuffled towards one of the armchairs by the fire. He moved slowly, leaning on a walking stick for support, and Arthur’s heart clenched. Ten years suddenly seemed like such a long time. “Morgana mentioned she had written to you, but I must say I didn’t expect you to come back.”

 

“Neither did I,” Arthur admitted. He stepped forward, intending to offer Gaius his arm, but was waved away by a gnarled hand. “I had all but convinced myself I would never set foot in Camelot again. But someone once told me I was destined to be a great king, and I can hardly do that without a kingdom, can I?”

 

Gaius gave a short laugh that turned into a phlegmy cough. “That was a long time ago,” he said, lowering himself into the chair closest to the fire. “And destiny is a fickle thing. Even the smallest change can alter the course of history.”

 

Arthur was silent. The warmth of the cottage made his skin prickle, his fingernails digging into his palms as he thought about just how large a change in course had brought them to this point. Perhaps the future wasn’t fixed, perhaps he _wasn’t_ destined for anything beyond a short life and an ignominious death, but that didn’t make the knowledge of what could have been any easier to bear.

 

Gaius looked at him, then, and it was possible he read some of the pain in Arthur’s face because he sighed and gestured to the other chair sitting opposite him. “Sit down, sire.”

 

“No, thank you. I prefer to stand.” Arthur wiped his sweaty hands on his tunic and clasped them behind his back. “I’ll try not to take up too much of your time.”

 

The old man eyed him narrowly, but if he suspected there was another reason behind Arthur’s refusal, he didn’t press the issue. “Very well, then. Why are you here?”

 

“I have questions.” In spite of himself, Arthur glanced back towards the door, even though he knew he had not been followed. “About Morgana.”

 

“I’m afraid I can’t comment on her condition.”

 

“No, that’s not what I…” Arthur took a deep breath. “What do you know about Morgana’s family? Her father, in particular, and the circumstances of her birth.”

 

Gaius’ brow furrowed. “Her family?” He looked perplexed. “I can’t imagine why you would— ”

 

“It’s important, Gaius,” Arthur said. “Anything you can remember about her history. What was Gorlois’ relationship with my parents?”

 

“Well, from what I remember Gorlois and the king were very good friends,” Gaius said, after a pause. “They were distant cousins, you know—they grew up together. Gorlois made Uther promise to take care of his family if anything should ever happen to him, which is why Morgana became his ward when her father died. Your mother and Lady Vivienne I’m not so sure of, but I know Morgana’s mother was always a favourite at court.”

 

“So Morgana has Pendragon blood, is that right? On her father’s side. And that would be why she now stands as presumptive heir to the throne?”

 

“In part, yes.” Gaius was looking at him intently, as though studying Arthur’s expression might give him some clue as to what was going on. For all his apparent frailty, he had clearly lost none of his wits in his old age. “Why are you asking me this? You know the answers to these questions as well as I do.”

 

Arthur reached inside his tunic and drew out the letter that he had hidden there that morning. He unfolded it, smoothing it out carefully before handing it to Gaius. “What if it could be shown that Morgana wasn’t Gorlois’ daughter after all?” he asked, as the old man fumbled for his spectacles. “What would happen to her claim then?”

 

“Well, it would be weakened, certainly.” Gaius set the glasses onto his nose and took the letter, holding it close to his face to peer at the hastily blotted ink. “But of course, there’s never been any doubt that she’s…that her father was…” His voice trailed off. Arthur watched while he scanned a few lines, then skipped to the bottom of the page and turned it over. When he realised there was no more writing, he looked up at Arthur. “Where did you get this?”

 

“I found some letters among my mother’s things,” Arthur said. “That was one of them. It’s a copy, of course—I couldn’t exactly wander around with the originals tucked into my belt. But it’s more or less word for word.”

 

“But this would suggest…”

 

“That the Lady Vivienne had an affair, yes.” Arthur took the letter from Gaius’ hands, although he didn’t need to look at it to know what it said. “She wrote to my mother, asking for her advice when she learned about the baby. They corresponded frequently, I understand.”

 

“And you’re certain these letters are genuine?” Gaius asked, looking stunned. “You have no doubt that they were written by the Lady Vivienne, and not an intermediary—your uncle, perhaps?”

 

“As near as I can tell, they’re the real thing.” Arthur ran his fingers over the parchment, remembering the thrill of excitement he’d felt when he realised what he had stumbled upon. “I’d have to get you and Geoffrey to examine the originals, of course, but they bear Gorlois’ seal. The first one is dated only a few months before Morgana’s birth. It hardly seems likely that Vivienne could have been referring to another child.”

 

“Impossible, I should say.” Gaius was staring at him. “But in that case—who was her father?”

 

“I was rather hoping you could tell me.”

 

“Let me see the letter again.” Arthur handed it over, and Gaius read it through once more, this time paying careful attention to the passages Arthur had underlined. He went through the entire thing twice in silence, mouthing the occasional phrase under his breath. Finally, he took off his spectacles and began to polish them vigorously with his tunic, his face set in a familiar frown.

 

“Well? Do you know who she’s talking about?” 

 

“No,” Gaius said flatly. “I don’t.” He set his glasses back on his nose and peered at Arthur with a severe expression, and Arthur’s heart sank. He knew that look. “As a matter of fact, I’m inclined to believe these letters of yours are fake.”

 

“Fake.” Arthur raised his eyebrows.

 

“Yes, sire. A hoax, if you will. No doubt somebody wanted to help you, and thought the best way to do it would be by discrediting Morgana. A shameful attempt at manipulation, nothing more.”

 

“And what makes you come to that conclusion?”

 

“All sorts of things. The dates, the timing… There is information in here that— ” He shook his head, and for the first time Arthur realised that he looked utterly exhausted. “I’m afraid they simply cannot be real, and that’s the end of it.”

 

“But, Gaius— ”

 

“I’m sorry, sire. I can’t help you.” Gaius’ lips were pressed into a firm line. “If that’s the only reason you came here, then I fear you have wasted your time and mine.”

 

Arthur wanted to argue, but he could tell from Gaius’ face that it would be pointless. “All right,” he said. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.” He reached out to retrieve the letter, but Gaius tugged it out of his grip and without giving Arthur the chance to object tossed it angrily onto the fire. Arthur stepped back when it caught alight, startled, but Gaius only glared into the flames, something startlingly close to hatred in his eyes. “Gaius?”

 

“Take it from an old man, sire,” he said, his gaze not leaving the parchment as it burned away to ash. “Nothing good ever comes from raking up the past.”

 

 

*

 

 

The first thing Arthur saw when he returned to the citadel was Leon’s unhappy face, and Leon himself striding towards him across the courtyard, his deep green cloak billowing behind him.

 

“There you are, sire,” he said, an edge to his voice. “We feared you might have been waylaid.”

 

“My errand took longer than I expected, that’s all,” Arthur said, his eyes flicking to the stoic faces of the guards flanking the steps. Leon seemed to get the message, falling into step beside him without another word, but when Arthur made to return to his rooms the knight shook his head, touching Arthur’s elbow and directing him down another corridor towards one of the storerooms. He pushed open the door, revealing the other senior members of Arthur’s entourage gathered inside. They were wearing matching worried expressions, which eased somewhat when they saw the prince.

 

“What is this?” Arthur demanded, whirling on Leon in irritation. “I’ve leave my room for a few hours and you start organising a search party?”

 

“It’s not that,” Geraint said. He shared a glance with Leon and sat back against one of the packing crates, crossing his ankles in a relaxed attitude that was completely at odds with his tense expression.  “We were worried, that’s all. The atmosphere here is somewhat chillier than we’d anticipated, if you take my meaning.”

 

“I reached out to Lord Godric like you asked,” Leon supplied, when Arthur turned an inquiring gaze on him. “And a couple of the other Lords who have been feeding us information these past few months. None of them were very eager to talk to me. I didn’t dare bring up the idea of pledging their men to support you, in case we’d been compromised.”

 

“Perhaps they’re too afraid to talk inside the citadel,” Arthur suggested, frowning. “With Morgause around, I wouldn’t be surprised if they don’t feel safe here any longer. Morgana already has at least one spy on our tail that we know of. Perhaps more.”

 

“Maybe.” Leon looked uneasy. “The last report we had was a few weeks before your father died; from what I gather, Morgause didn’t show up at the castle until afterwards. Perhaps they simply didn’t want to draw attention to themselves.” 

 

“The knights were downright unpleasant to us, though,” Gareth put in. He had a small, wizened apple in one hand and tossed it into the air as he spoke, although unlike his brother he didn’t seem to be feigning nonchalance. He had always taken things less seriously than Geraint did. “One or two of them seemed to think you were responsible for King Uther’s death.”

 

Something caught in Arthur’s throat. “I was a _prisoner_.”

 

“Apparently that doesn’t signify.” Geraint reached out to snag the apple on its downward plummet and bit into it, ignoring his younger brother’s protests. “We’ll have our work cut out for us if we have to take the citadel by force, sire. A lot of the men are definitely on Morgana’s side—or at least, not on ours.”

 

Arthur’s heart sank, but he straightened his shoulders. “That may change,” he said, thinking about Gaius and what he’d said about Arthur’s destiny. “We’ve only been here a day, after all. We can’t expect things to be different overnight.”

 

“It would help if we had information that might discredit Morgana in their eyes,” Leon said meaningfully, looking at the prince. “Did your errand this morning turn up anything useful?”

 

“Maybe. I’m pretty sure Gaius knows more than he’s telling, at least. Judging from his reaction to there contents, the letters are most likely genuine.” 

 

“What?” Geraint sat up straighter, almost kicking over one of the empty seed bins in his haste. “Why didn’t you tell us that to start with?”

 

Arthur snorted. “Because he’s not talking. He tried to persuade me that the letters were simple forgeries, but he wasn’t very convincing. I think he’s afraid of what might happen if we try to dig any further.”

 

“So he’s on Morgana’s side, too.”

 

“I don’t think Gaius is on anyone’s side.” Arthur shook his head. “But if we can figure out what it is that has him so spooked, we might be one step closer to finding a way out of this sorry mess.”

 

He paused, looking at the three men awaiting his orders, then realised he was subconsciously waiting for someone to interject—a specific someone, someone with dark hair and impossibly blue eyes who always thought he knew better than his prince—and all of a sudden the familiar longing twisted in his chest so hard he had to catch his breath. After his encounter with Gaius, the past felt suddenly less distant, as if he might turn a corner and run into his former self on his way to quell an uprising or slay a mythical beast. Only, of course, it had been Merlin who had done most of the quelling and slaying back then, and Arthur had simply been too self-involved to notice. 

 

There had been a lesson there. Arthur had learned it too late, but he had learned it well.

 

“Sire?” Leon prompted, when Arthur had been silent for a moment too long. He shook himself and met Leon’s gaze, trying to ignore the knowing sympathy he saw in his dark eyes. 

 

“We’re onto something,” he said. “I’m sure of it. We just have to do some more investigating.”

 

“But how?” Geraint asked plaintively. “If Gaius won’t talk and none of the nobles are brave enough to take a stand, who do we have left to turn to?”

 

Arthur thought back to the days when he had been Crown Prince and faced down all manner of enemies, usually with a grumbling Merlin at his side. Where had Merlin obtained his information? From Gaius, he assumed. But even Gaius didn’t know everything; there was a reason he had so many books in his chambers, even now. “I think,” Arthur said slowly. “We may need to pay a visit to the library.”


End file.
